Brick and Mortar
by Elven Moon
Summary: After Grandpa Phil dies, Arnold risks losing the boarding house to the bank. Is help just around the corner? ON HIATUS
1. Losing Grandpa Phil

Whether he knows it or not, I've always been there for him.

OK, not always. Since I was three, and he held that umbrella over me in the rain after I had already walked alone some number of blocks to preschool, muddy and miserable. The gesture was appreciated – no, treasured. Nobody had ever been so nice.

I'm not pretty, and I'm not popular. If you looked for a picture definition of beautiful in the dictionary, I wouldn't be there. I am not graced with hair that shimmers in the sun or locks that cascade down my back. I don't "fill out in all the right places" like society dictates you should. My ears droop and stick out like a sore thumb (thanks for nothing, Bob). I don't laugh like an airhead at boy's jokes, bake cupcakes or lust over the latest fashions. It's not who I am.

I don't have many friends. They say I'm no good. You can't blame them totally for that assumption. For as long as most of them can probably recall, I have been a bully. I threaten, I shove, I yell, and I get results. I have to, because they'd never let me live it down if I show too much kindness or any kind of positive emotion in public. Long story. I don't really want to go there. So I won't. Nothing you can do about it.

Life isn't fair. If you think you're good at something, there's always someone better. No use tricking yourself. I'm no fool.

So why do I go out of my way for this boy? This naïve, silly boy who's always looking for the bright side? You could be trapped in a well and somehow he'd make it into a picnic. He really grates on my nerves. Always so calm, so freakin' happy. I want to throttle him.

To be blunt, I'm in love. I hate myself for it, but I can't help it. Arnold. His hair is the color of corn, but in silken waves that spike out at opposite ends of his head like a bristle brush. I affectionately call him "Football head" because… well, his head is the shape of a football. Everyday I think about Arnold. Even in my dreams, he's there, smiling that smile. When I'm not so afraid to really talk to him without calling him names.

I know I don't deserve the boy wonder. I know I make things difficult at times, and I do harbor pleasure from doing so. By the same token, I would never, never do something to really truly hurt him. I never call Arnold "orphan boy" (on account of his dear parents who disappeared when he was barely a few years old) or hit him or any of those things.

When the school's resident princess, Rhonda, told him he'd marry me someday, I saw what could be nothing less than desperation and fear. In the end, I heard him tell Gerald, his best friend, that he'd had a nightmare about it but that it had turned out not as horrible as he'd expected it to be. Rhonda later told everyone her errors in the system. But I still hold on to what I heard that day on the bus.

I'm still too afraid to declare my unwavering devotion (OK, so I did it once. But that was years ago and we both wrote it off as a "heat of the moment" thing. He's so dense I doubt it's remembered). So instead of using words, I throw actions. "Behind the scenes" jobs are my specialty and require a lot of energy and cunning. I once gave up a treasured Christmas gift just so Arnold could reunite a family. I can also be more up front; after making a mess of things that led to an unreturned crush, I was there to consol. It may mean hours stuck in the freezing cold, or climbing through small spaces in the dirt and darkness. But when I see that "everything is right now" smile of his, it makes me feel good. I let him think the world is full of magic and miracles, even though I know it isn't so. For now, it's the best I can do. Of course, it's immediately denied and covered up, should he discover it's me, but it has to be this way.

At the present time, however, something is beyond my reach, and protection isn't possible.

Grandpa Phil has died.

* * *

Chapter One coming soon. 


	2. That Deceptively Sunny Day

Chapter One: That Deceptively Sunny Day

* * *

"He's… gone." 

It hit me hard the day he approached us. I'll never forget it.

In accordance to the family curse, a much treasured (though the gassiest old geezer I had ever known) caretaker and grandfather died. The grandson's eyes were puffy and pink, his clothes slightly matted, and it looked like he had never bothered to change into pajamas, if he had gotten any sleep at all the night prior.

We (at least the ones that Arnold had bothered to keep in contact with) were sitting on the steps of the boarding house on that deceptively sunny afternoon. We had planned to meet up with Arnold to play a rousing game of baseball a week prior, and his absence was troubling, so we headed over hoping to find the reasoning. Phoebe was prattling on (bless her) about something academic, trying to ease the tension. Harold, a.k.a. lard boy, was chewing on a candy bar, looking lost. The kid could still pack away what could easily feed a small country even after elementary school. The others I don't know and don't care. Arnold was the most important thing.

There were murmurings of sympathy. Someone shuffled their feet. And my heart broke. It was like someone tore it out of my chest, shot it a few times, and stepped on it, letting the dirt and gunk from the soles stick and rot on the surface and sink to the insides. It's not like I really knew the old coot that well. He wasn't the shiniest pebble on the beach, but from observation anyone could pick up the closeness and bond they shared. Heck, Grandpa Phil was practically a second father.

It was in his sleep, which is, in some ways, the best way to go. No suffering, no pain. He had simply gone to bed for a nap, and didn't wake up. He didn't go out jumping from an airplane without a parachute, or blowing up the street with too much dynamite or getting fatally injured after an attempted mugging. Didn't even die in the bathroom (which Arnold has told me was practically his office). When asked how his grandmother was doing, he gave a smile, saying she was "in the jungle preparing the proper loin cloth for Tarzan."

I wanted so badly to hug him, to just reach out and at least put my hand softly on his shoulder. But I was a coward. Although I knew it probably wouldn't be noticed or wavered considering the mood and circumstances, I just couldn't do it. Instead I tried to show on my face as much sadness and concern I could manage.

"What can we do, Arnold?" Phoebe asked.

Arnold shook his head. "I don't know… thank you all for being here, but… I need to be alone for awhile. I'm sorry about baseball."

Shortly after the news, everybody decided it was best to go home and watch TV, or shop, or plunge into anything else a teenager might do, so long as it wasn't near or in the boarding house. "We're here for you, man" and "Call if you need anything" were called out as the voices became smaller and smaller. I however, remained. I was rooted to the spot. I couldn't move. I just couldn't. I looked like a statue or maybe a paranormal investigator suddenly hearing an unearthly sound, I'll bet.

The grieving blonde noticed this, and slowly walked to where I was. I was shocked he was willing to be this close after our shaky history together (but then we did have our moments). In any other situation, I might have swooned, or perhaps threatened him with a "face rearrangement" if he so much as came within ten feet.

He wasn't a short nine-year-old anymore. Now he was a nineteen-year-old that rivaled my own height by about six inches. I had to glance up to see his face.

Finally able to speak, but knowing not what to say, I stammered "Sorry, Arnold, um… about your grandfather and all."

He shrugged, but I could tell he was fighting off something inside. "He was a good person. I'm really going to miss him."

There was an awkward silence. I cleared my throat.

"Are you… going to be OK?"

There was a pause as Arnold moved his weight from one leg to another. "It's just not fair, Helga. He shouldn't have gone. I wasn't ready. Grandma wasn't ready. The boarders certainly weren't ready. We needed him. I need him."

A low volume sniffle betrayed his nose, and small wells of tears formed at the sides of his eyes. And then, to my bewilderment, I wasn't prepared for and most assuredly didn't expect what happened next.

He grabbed and pulled Helga Pataki into a hug. A strong hug, I might add.

"I've never known life without grandpa, Helga. What do I do?"

I could feel his shoulders shake, and hesitating, my hands found their way to his back in time. It would be heartless to panic and push him like I had the previous times he had felt the sudden urge to embrace me. And I listened to his fruitless pleas and sobs for the terrible loss.

"Arnold… your grandfather loved you. He wouldn't want you to be so down. He'd want you to go out there, have fun and really live."

Mr. Optimistic was unable to find that silver lining for the first if not one of the few times in all the years I had known him. And there was nobody I could bribe, no place I could hide, and nothing I could make or do to fix this. No amount of fairy dust tossings or wishing upon a stars can bring someone back from the dead. You can't shield someone from death, and especially not from the aftereffects.

"I wish Gerald was here."

Gerald had already left for college months before on a sports scholarship. He talked to Arnold every week if not daily but I'm sure word hadn't reached him about this just yet.

"I'm… here for you… should you ever need to talk or anything. Things will get better. Promise."

"I know, Helga. Thank you."

We stayed like this for several minutes. I have no idea how long, but it wasn't nearly as long as I would've liked. By the time he pulled away, his face was wet and stained from the tears. I smiled to nonverbally repeat what had been said earlier. He thanked me again, and went into the house.

I wouldn't see Arnold again for about a week until the funeral, but I thought and muddled and worried and fretted the whole time. As it turns out, I had every right to dread what could possibly happen next.

* * *

Chapter Two coming soon. Your feedback is always appreciated. 


	3. I Let Her See Me Cry

Chapter Two: I Let Her See Me Cry

* * *

The atmosphere for the funeral matched how everyone was feeling; rainy (the kind of rainy where everything feels rotten and muggy and the worms come out of the ground only to dry out and die). Most had to duke it out under the relentless splattering water, since the change in weather had not been predicted. Arnold, who stood across from me at the other side of the casket, was holding on to his grandma's arm. To be frank, I don't like cemeteries at all. I'm always expecting a dark shadow or something equally creepy. When we were kids I tried to freak everyone out by playing the part of a ghost bride – serves them right for not letting a girl come along with them on their stupid little excursion. Anyway, since then I avoid anywhere with tombstones. And I'm not talking frozen pizza. 

I stared at the deep brown, wooden color of the place the old man would forever rest. I shuddered inwardly. I know we all end up in the same place, no matter how rich or poor, how big our house is or what kind of car we keep in the garage, but it never really hits you in the face until you go to a funeral. The "knots" from the tree used to build it resembled dark and dastardly eyes, as if trying to taunt me into madness.

I'd say about thirty mourners, give or take, were there. A few souls who couldn't handle the atmosphere were sitting on the hoods of their cars, or slowly walking away, shaking their heads or blowing into a tissue. I'm sure they just wanted to get inside, nice and dry with a smooth cup of coffee or tea to ease the unease. I couldn't blame them.

"Amen." So came the cushiony voice of the priest, who had an air of "I'm used to this" in his stance. A bible was slammed shut, and a head was bowed. My darling's grandmother approached the casket first, mumbled something I couldn't make out (and even if I had, I don't know if I'd understand), put a single white rose on top, followed by a club of some sort (to fight dinosaurs in the afterlife, I guess?) and backed away. Arnold followed suite, and soon anyone who wanted last words or to put their own gift there did the same.

I could see the tears again; those pain-filled, lonely tears. My poor, sweet, stubborn treasure. Just then I heard a rather loud snort to my right. I turned and saw Arnie, Arnold's annoying and uninteresting hick cousin. You can't read this guy; his face would look bland and stupid even if he was holding onto the edge of a cliff.

"Hey." Snort.

"H… hello, Arnie."

"Want some gum?" Snort.

"No, Arnie… thank you."

"Wanna walk or somethin'?"

I gritted my teeth. "No, Arnie. Go away."

"Kay." Snort. And that was that. Completely random. At least he didn't try to read the ingredients from the peanuts bag he got off the plane or bus or cattle wagon or whatever. I really hoped he wasn't still "interested" in me. How many girls could you get to date him, anyway? Well, pretty n' perfect Lila, yes. But only heavy brainwashing and forcing the green pills down my throat would get the same result for me.

After the casket was lowered it began to rain even harder than before. My ponytail (my pigtails long ago abandoned) held by my trademark pink ribbon sagged into an almost triangle. I scowled. Great, just great. I hadn't bothered to drive (not like Big Bob would let me have his precious car anyway, and I didn't have the money to get one of my own) and now I would have to walk the few blocks back. Didn't even have a dime to catch the bus. I'd probably end up looking like the Swamp Thing after trudging through the inevitable mud and whatever else the city liked to leave lying around.

Because of these two distractions (Arnie and the rain), I'd lost sight of Arnold. I cursed under my breath, because I really wanted to talk to him. I could still hear just fine, though.

"It's a sorry shame… it looks like they may lose the place," I heard a human say in a gossiping tone.

My eyes perked up (if that's even possible). Were they talking about the boarding house?

"Yeah, the old guy was apparently hiding some money problems. They've been getting phone calls from the bank, I'm told."

Arnold had not yet bothered to go to college. Instead he had opted to stay and help his grandparents for a year or two with upkeep and driving them around and the like, before pursuing a career in something that would benefit both the people he loved and the community. But of course. Wouldn't have it any other way.

It was just as well; every penny would be needed right now, if this information was correct. How successfully can you hope to run a boarding house when most of its tenants are late with the rent, don't bother to pay at all, or rack up the food and utility bills? With the yahoos and sitting pretties in that place, I'm surprised it didn't fold years ago.

So, not only had the boy lost someone he had known all his life, he was going to lose his home, too!

I could not allow this to happen!

I didn't want Arnold to lose that stunning sun roof where he could look up and dream. I didn't want him to end up in some retirement complex forced to watch "the wheel" and eat microwave macaroni and cheese, or worse, branch off from his relatives and move to another state. But most of all, I didn't want him to leave… me.

If he left, I couldn't see him anymore; or at most get a phone call or two on rare instances because he would somehow feel obligated to. What if he found someone to love and adore him as much as I wanted to be the one to do? What if my only way to see him would be in the headlines after finding a cure for cancer or a wedding invitation in the mail? I had invested too much of myself into him. It would be like cutting off an arm and chucking it to Delaware.

So lost in these panicked thoughts it took a few taps on my shoulder and a sudden patch of dryness over my head for it to register someone was next to me. Naturally assuming who it was, I snapped, "I'm not interested, country boy!"

"Huh?"

Oops. It was you-know-who. And he was holding an umbrella. How predictable. And yet, how ironic and sweet.

"Uh… nothing at all, Arnold. Thought you were someone else."

"That's OK."

"How are you holding up?"

He was calm, voice controlled, and had probably gotten a lot out of his system by this time. "It's going. Do you need a ride? Grandma will be serving ginger snaps and punch at the house."

"Ginger snaps and punch? Is this a PTA meeting?" I quipped, attempting to lighten the mood. I got a reaction and that was all I wanted. To know all hope was not lost. At least not yet.

So I climbed into that car with my childhood one-sided sweetheart and found myself surrounded by the people one could consider family if you crammed them all into one place for an extended period.

I chewed on a ginger snap but found I wasn't hungry. It was more of an "eating because you're bored or stressed" situation. The punch tasted like a dog had been swimming in it. What did this crazy woman put in it, anyway? Did she think she was making something tropical? Maybe a tropical disease brew, that's all I could figure.

It was quiet as guests spoke in small groups in spots across the family room. I sat on the hardly comfortable couch, not sure what to do. I wanted to do some snooping, but with so many people around and without Grandpa Phil to fool that I was someone else (like a girlscout or salesman), it was aggravating that I couldn't confirm what I had heard at the cemetery. Plus I had my "so don't care, talk to me and I'll kill you" façade to consider.

At some point the gang showed up, those who couldn't make the funeral, and I managed small talk. We discussed the weather, wrestling, all that junk. The reason we were all there was tactfully (or maybe subconsciously) avoided.

Finally I couldn't take it anymore. Whether I revealed myself beyond the comfort zone or not, I had to speak with someone in the know.

Strolling into the kitchen I found the widow sitting at the table. She looked sad, and didn't seem to notice me. Simply staring ahead, as if her husband was going to climb in through the window or crash through the wall any minute, claiming that he was a "wiley old coot" and it had all been a big joke. And unless people were ready to meet a real zombie or there had been some kind of scientific breakthrough nobody knew about, I doubted this.

She let out a long, hard sigh, and I felt such pity. All this woman had left was her grandson. So I didn't just feel pain for Arnold, I realized. Because of my emotional connection to him, I felt it for his family, too. If I married him, one of us would have to die first. It may be days, weeks, or years apart. Be it a broken heart, a medical problem, or maybe just a natural end. But one of us would lose the other. Not even the slimiest of car salesmen should have to deal.

Without thinking, I walked without walking, sitting in the creaky wooden chair across. And I looked. I didn't say a word, didn't move my eyes or mouth or even reach out. I let her see me cry. It was a small amount, not exactly bawling, maybe more of a weeping. I was ready to pull back if any onlookers should be nearby, but for now I was sure it was safe.

I got her attention, and her face showed something I couldn't read. Was it shock? Happiness? To this day I'll never know.

* * *

Thank you for all your feedback. It really means a lot. I tried to make this one a little longer, but I was pressed for time to get this out before college classes suck up most of my brain juice. I can't promise when the next will be available, but I'm going to do my best. 


	4. Covered With Grass Stains, An Idea

Chapter Three: Covered With Grass Stains, An Idea

* * *

Grass is one of the best kinds of blankets; as long as there aren't ants and bugs to crawl around in your hair. I'm not the kind of girl who hates getting down and dirty, but I can only tolerate so much.

I wasn't there to cloud watch, pretending to see horsies and duckies and deformed magical creatures in the floating cotton balls. I was with Arnold.

Well, and some other people too.

"Golly, Arnold. I reckon that sure doesn't sound good."

"No Stinky," came a harmonious yet frustrated voice. "It's terrible."

The bank was officially dealing with the boarding house. Things looked so dire even the residents were apartment hunting. I finally did find out when Arnold found me with his grandmother in the kitchen. She proclaimed that "Eleanor" (me) was trustworthy enough to be told, so Arnold laid it out for me. I was sworn not to reveal the secret (or not-so-secret secret) until the boy could find the right time to reveal it to everyone else.

Today was that time.

We had all been laying there for 45 minutes, and not one idea had come to fruition - or at least a good one. The sun, I swear, was going to turn our skin red until we were lobsters ready for eating.

"How about a bake sale?"

"That's the dumbest idea I have ever heard!"

"Then you come up with something!"

"I just did! And you hated it!"

Yes, we had been arguing, too. I was gritting my teeth, about ready to start pummeling some soft brains. Instead, I gripped blades of grass in my hand, pulling them up and aggressively thrusting them to my right.

This was accomplishing nothing. By the end of the month everything would change. In fact, I was disgusted that so little was being done about it. You would think, with all football head had done for this city, there would be uproar that he was losing his home. And yet so few people seemed overly concerned. Maybe it was the cruel reality and bitterness of city life. Maybe people had forgotten those good deeds. Or was it that a rose's thorns had not been clipped, allowing it to grow, its stem twisting and folding around that brick wall, disallowing entry to those who tried to climb that wall or get around it, while the little daisy lay trapped inside. Poetic, though it probably makes little sense.

"Listen, simpletons," I growled, "if you don't stop with the fighting and come up with something _useful_, I will personally see to it that you eat through tubes for the rest of your lives!"

There was a temporary silence as my words sunk in.

"What do you care anyway, Helga?"

Oh, how wrong they were. I cared more than they would ever understand. I waved my hand up for all to see as if to dismiss the allegation.

"Who said I did? I was trying to nap and all your yelling is waking me up every 5 minutes." I turned my head slightly as I put my hands behind my head for a makeshift pillow. I swear I saw Arnold, who was about two people away but still quite visible, give a tiny smile.

"For what He-lga? Beauty sleep? Ahaha!"

"Cram it, pink boy," I sneered, "before I box your ears and tie it up in ribbon!"

That shut him up.

I let out a long, hard sigh to emphasize my impatience. Obviously we weren't going to get anywhere today. This wasn't a group school project where you had to decide whether to make a building out of glued popsicle sticks or a collage of colored paper. We weren't raising money for a club to take a trip to an amusement park. Criminey, this was an emergency!

I found myself staring into the deep blue of the sky. At that moment, I wished I had wings. Perhaps I had wished so before, on cold rainy nights when Olga was home or I was simply feeling neglected and lonely. But this time I really meant it. If I did, I could cleanse myself of worry and the inconvenience of being stuck to the ground like furniture bolted on a boat. I'd fly so high up everything would be a speck on the earth. And I would play on the moon, rolling about in its silvery dust. And my little star would be with me. Always with me.

Is there a bunny on the moon? I've always thought the Japanese theory a little crazy. They do eat a lot of fish; maybe it got to them in a bad way. Of course the "man on the moon" was just as silly. No, if there were any dark marks on the side we could see, it would be from where I had swam, slept, jumped, lived, loved. If I had wings.

Oh, Arnold…

"Hey Arnold… it's starting to get dark."

Had I nodded off? It looked that way. I've no idea just how much time had passed. But it must have been at least an hour because the sun was already saying goodbye, and from my view the sky was now a cascade of pink and yellow, like someone had taken a water color brush and swept it about in a semi-careless manner.

I guess grass was a little _too_ comfortable to rest on. To try to hide the fact that I had been snoozing (although it was probably very out in the open by now) I grabbed a blade of grass and attempted to make a knot in it, my eyes rapidly moving back and forth.

"I guess we should call it a day," I could hear him sigh. Like an extra weight had been added to his already heavy shoulders. "I have to help with… packing anyway."

But I wasn't ready to go home just yet.

My throat was cleared as feet were once again planted on the ground, shoes no doubt leaving brand name marks on the patches of dirt that would be demolished with the next wave of weather. Miriam would be passed out from too many smoothies right now; Bob planted on the couch like a beached manatee yelling for someone to get him something to drink. And I wasn't about to be the one to do so.

So I stood and pretended to do stretches and exercises to "wake up" my body after having been on the ground for so long. Eventually I was the only one there with Arnold.

He was sitting with his knees sticking up towards the sky, elbows resting on them. I could tell, as I could read him so well from years of exposure, that he was avoiding the very same thing. Unsure if I was noticed, I plopped down not two feet away from where Arnold was, waiting for something to happen. Or if nothing did, it would still feel darn good to be so close.

I couldn't force the crestfallen baby sparrow to talk, and I suppose he just wanted the company. For it was several minutes of quiet before he finally looked somewhere other than ahead, straightening his legs and seemingly searching for something to say, the way his mouth was moving. I gave my full attention.

"I… can't believe I'll be leaving Hillwood." The tone was gut-wrenching.

"You won't, Arnold," my own tone firm. "You won't."

"The boarding house meant so much to grandpa. It's been in the family for so long. And it means so much to me. I'm letting… I'm letting grandpa down."

I scooted closer. "No. No, Arnold. You're trying and that's what is important. Don't you dare think that any of this is your fault."

"But I don't… I just don't…"

"Oh, Arnold. We all know something that you don't seem to get. And that's…" I was cautious with my words, using "we" instead of "I", "and that's that you're stronger and more capable than you think. In childhood everything can look so innocent, so mysterious and grand. And when you grow up, it fades into bitterness, paranoia, a washed out hopelessness. You, Arnold… stuck to your principles, and that is very commendable. Don't let this small twig cause you to trip on your path of life."

"Helga, you're the only person that's really sat down and comforted me. Thank you…"

"Think nothing of it, football head." Winking, I added, "Now stop being gloomy or I'll have to pound you."

I couldn't stay forever, but I wanted to. Just sitting with Arnold, his head in my lap (oh, don't I wish), humming a lullaby and taking away his depression, rubbing his tears away with my fingers. But, if I was gone too long, Big Bob might call me into the trophy room and lecture me about being responsible and good, like Olga.

Big Bob, the man who fathered me and yet couldn't remember my name most of the time.

Big Bob, the beeper guy.

And that's when I got my grand idea.

* * *

Thank you for your esteemed patience. The next chapter is coming soon. 


	5. My Morning Amour

Chapter Four: My Morning Amour

* * *

It was a delicious idea. A Sunday tea with the white rabbit and chocolate ice cream for dessert idea.

After a hasty goodbye to Arnold (he looked perplexed, the dear little dope) I booked it home as quickly as I could, my legs sore and aching from the uncommon push.

This had to work. A lot was on the line here.

My "Dear old dad" wasn't that hard to manipulate. He thought with his wallet, and if you laid the right plan on his lap, he'd lap it up like a thirsty dog. Like many residents in Hillwood, he had to know what was in it for him before helping anyone besides himself. Not a redeeming quality, but it would work fine for my plan. This had proved true in the past, and I couldn't believe it hadn't come to me sooner.

As soon as my front door was closed, I tossed my worn white sneakers to the side, ready to work my magic. But I didn't hear any moaning or grunting or can slurping, and I assumed, unless Miriam was actually awake, I was pretty much alone in the house. So I walked to the kitchen, deciding to stuff my stomach with a sweet treat (or a bag of chips, whatever). Maybe eating would clear my head and allow a more stable way of approaching to enter my mind.

I was halfway through a stale slice of week old chocolate cake (I'm surprised we even had it – usually I had to play the part of cowboy chef and scrounge together random, scarce ingredients into something digestible) when Big Bob (who else could make such a ruckus?) stormed a shadow past the door and could be heard plopping down on his favorite green chair.

Now I had to make my move.

"That you, Olga?"

"It's _Helga_, Dad." If this man ever grew senile, I'd never be able to tell.

But I couldn't get snippy if I wanted this to work. So I simply forced myself to shrug it off, smiling so wide I think I broke a cheek muscle, and ventured into the TV room.

Yep, there he was. Sitting. Sitting, sitting, sitting. Once that butt was down it'd take a herd of wild, angry elephants to stampede through the house to get a stir, and even then the man would complain that he couldn't hear his newest beeper commercial over the noise.

I'm sure my appearance of good cheer confused him, for I was eyed with suspicion.

"What are you up to, girl?" he yammered.

With as much sweetness as one could tolerate, my voice cooed, "Dad, can I talk to you?"

He just turned and stared ahead at the TV, which was taken to mean "Go ahead, but make it quick, girl." Either that or "Go away, the game's on." Whichever it meant, I didn't care.

"Dad, I've been thinking about the emporium lately… I'm really quite interested in it."

"Mm?"

"I mean, it's really very fascinating… all those beepers… beeping all day long. It's the wave of the future!" said making a whoosh across the air with my right hand.

The old man pointed at me. "Darn right it is, little lady."

Hook, line, and sinker. Well, at this point maybe sitting at the dock waiting for a bite.

"So, I thought maybe I'd propose something that could really put it on the map." I paused for drama's sake. "You see-"

"Good for you, Olga," he interrupted, "You've finally decided to put that whole 'writing thing' to rest and go where the family business is! I'm proud of you, girl!"

That's all fine and good, but that's not what I meant! I'd rather be a barmaid tossing brandies at drunken lumberjacks than spend 10 minutes in that suffocating place!

"No, Dad! I'm talking about spreading the Big Bob name!"

The armchair really needed a good scrubbing, what with all the dried food substances and random stains. I stared at it to try to stay focused and remain undisturbed.

He didn't seem convinced. "What do you mean? This doesn't involve some shady character that's going to dupe me in a contract, does it? Because last time that lousy-"

"No, Dad. Actually, I'm pretty darn sure this'll make you even more money!"

There was silence. You could probably hear a piece of straw hit the ground.

"Keep talking…"

I slept very well that night, clutching my blanket, my head snuggled in pillows and feeling warmer inside and out than I had in a very long time. I was doing a grand thing, or so I thought. Arnold would be happy, I would be happy, and we could be happy together.

The moon had never looked so magical.

"Come, my little animal friends!" a young voiced called out. That was me.

It was like a scene out of Snow White. Only I wasn't about to scrub down a tiny cottage for a group of dirty dwarfs. And the only "animal friends" I might get were rats and pigeons. Gross. Oh, and you couldn't pay me to wear some frilly dress with enough lace to choke a ship.

I cared not. I was in too excellent a mood. I was ready to climb a mountain, sing a sonnet, review a movie!

Normally I'm not a morning person. Morning people are insane. I mean really, who can be so perky before 10 am? Not Helga Pataki.

However, on this particular sunrise I was fresh out of bed and humming merrily to myself as I tossed clothes from my closet about. I hadn't bothered to set my alarm (it would've been lost to the out-the-window lords anyway), I had simply chosen that hour to open my dream-filled eyes. I was too excited to be sleepy and grumpy.

Something inside was nagging me, however. Now that this was done and practically written in stone, it was beginning to sink in. I couldn't exactly knock on the door and bellow at him about what was soon to conspire and expect nothing to change, no matter how badly I wanted it. It's not that Arnold wouldn't connect the dots on his own at some point (goodness willing), but that pride and fear of mine were in constant battle, and it was a bloody one. I didn't have a little devil and a little angel on my shoulder, like in cartoons. If I did I'm sure one of them would have "taken care of" the other by now.

Should I leave a note on the doorstep, ring the bell, and run? That was more along the lines of my style, but that was rather a copout. Should I let Big Bob's lawyer contact the family first? But no, that was too informal and stiff.

After I had managed to get all the nasty knots out of my hair, and I felt presentable enough that I didn't look like a professional dumpster diver, I checked the clock. 8:30. Fair enough. I'd give it 15 more minutes before I started my walk.

I never made it to the door. I was but a few inches away when Bob called for me to come into the trophy room. He was covered in official looking papers, and gave me a list of things he wanted done. I protested, but of course it was useless to even try. All day I was forced to make phone calls, run errands and other tedious tasks. By the time everything was in order, and I had heard "It was your idea, now you get it done!" about 30 times, it was late afternoon. I fell asleep then, and it was the next morning before I dared to sneak out to see Arnold.

Like people avoiding a situation, I made sure to check every detail in the sidewalk and other architecture. How many cracks were in it, how old it looked: that nonsense. I never believed in the tale that if you stepped on a crack, you'd break your mother's back. If that were true we'd have fuller hospitals, or at least through-the-roof medical care bills.

My breaths were slow and even, and the closer I got, the more I shook. I was furious with myself. Me, getting all weak and pathetic over a painfully non-complex errand of telling the boy I cherished with all my being that I was pretty much resurrecting what was once apparently too far to reach and near impossible. I suppose it was rather like being in a play. You're so tickled to be the lead, all the lines are known and the costume fits just right, but come opening night you're ready to hide in a closet, trembling like a cornered baby bunny.

It sure looked intimidating when you're in the right mood. The years had not been too kind to the exterior. And the door could seriously use a repaint. But I'm no Hannah Homemaker. I waited several seconds before hitting my knuckles against the green wood, then stepped back and tried to smear on the right face. Hearing nothing, I did so again, only louder, copy and paste the last action. I just had to hope the right person came, as well.

There was the small sound of pattering feet before a gentle click of someone unlocking the door came to my ears. I took in a breath. This was it. No turning back. Could I pretend to be sleepwalking?

No time now. Saints of Salamanders be praised! It was me amour!

He looked out of it, with half-lidded eyes. I felt a little remorseful for not having waited maybe another hour.

"He… Helga? Whu… are you doing here?"

I gave a half-smile. "H-hey. Arnold."

"Is… something wrong?"

So cute. So cute.

"N-no. I just was… um… in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by," I finished with a blush to my cheeks (at least I think I was. I sure felt hot in the face).

"Oh… well, um… do you… wanna come in?" He stumbled a little to step to the side and make room for my entrance.

"Whatever floats your boat, Arnoldo." That was pushed in for familiarity, and I felt a little more comfortable. Yes, old habits die hard.

As we sat in the confines of the home, my refusal for food or something to drink aside, I once again felt as though a bubble were about to burst in my chest, but knew this had to be done.

I thought about what I was doing, how this would affect everything, the fact that Arnold would be in my life, if only for a little longer and to give me ample time to win his heart, his tears and heartbreak as of late, and this once, I realized, I would take the credit. Openly. No mirrors or shadows. No overcoats, no voice skewers.

"Now, don't get your beans in a can, but…"

* * *

Writer's block is the worst. Anyway, thank you for the kind words. I'm incredibly flattered that everyone enjoys reading it so much. More like shocked, really. In any case, I'd also like to thank my friend Sandy, who always gets "first read" on my work and helps me along. Next chapter soon! 


	6. Put On A Parade 1

Chapter Five: Put On A Parade!1

* * *

"It's about the boarding house." 

My hands were clasped without grace in my lap because I wasn't sure what else to do with them. I could still become a bumbling boob if cornered by someone I held respect for.

It wasn't too far from if not the same place I sat at the funeral. Despite the test of time the whole place still revealed that the person in charge of decoration was elderly. I don't know why they go for the decorations they do – doilies, crochet blankets, and other things anyone under the age of 50 probably wouldn't rush to the store to buy. A new picture (that I hadn't noticed around, anyway) sat on top of the ancient TV. It was of Grandpa Phil in his younger days, smiling and standing next to a tree in the black-and-white universe old photos like to convey.

The sleepiness left Arnold's eyes, going into panic mode. He likely assumed it was yet another tragedy, even though I'd told him nothing was wrong. No soul could blame him for that, though, and he sprinted closer to where I was sitting.

"What's wrong! What is it, Helga? What's happened?" He pleaded with his expression for me to continue, and quickly.

"Don't blow a liver, everything is fine."

He sighed, sinking back a little in relief. "So then… what's going on with the boarding house? Did you get an idea?"

The temptation to simply blurt it all out fought with my lips, and it was a struggle to not sound too excited or ambitious when I spoke. "Actually, more than that." I looked at his nose, afraid to stare right into his eyes. "I went home to talk to Bob about the situation. And… well... you don't have to move."

Disbelief or maybe stupefaction overcame that face.

"Helga! What do you mean?"

I leaned towards him, speaking slower and louder. "My Dad is buying the boarding house from the bank and giving it back to you. You don't have to move." It was a little more complicated than that, but I wasn't going out to find a blackboard and pointer stick.

Arnold blinked, and the message finally seeped in.

"Oh Helga… you did this for us? Are you serious?"

Whoa, it was getting hot in that room. A fan would've been helpful. Maybe a bat to knock me out so I couldn't feel evil, jumpy butterflies in my stomach.

"Y… yes. I did. And I am."

Unmistakably gladdened, Arnold jumped to his feet and grabbed my hands, pulling us into a rough draft Ring around the Rosie. Not a very good plan in an enclosed space, but thankfully nothing glass or easily breakable were near enough.

"As long as all faith isn't lost, anything can happen! I just knew it!"

It was like the delight of a child discovering that there really was a Santa Claus. That, despite cruel words and taunting from other misbelieving peers, there was magic in the places you last thought to look.

And if I were a true thinker of such things, as skewed as my mind and self had become from years of experience and observation, I hid the fact that I wasn't pretty well. When that boy was in one of these "never say die" moods, it was intoxicating and contagious, even if you pretended not to be affected (which, in truth, I have done many times).

I laughed along with him, though volume controlled and at a level I would allow, avoiding hitting things that we swung past, tears slowly falling out of my eyes.

Arnold wrapped his arms around me into a hug, this one incredibly tight, and I had to wonder if he'd suddenly gained the strength of a pro wrestler. I'd certainly be curious to see him in one of those getups.

It wasn't out of anguish. Why would it be?

In a barely audible whisper I heard, "Helga… thank you. This means so much to me, to my family. You sure are befuddling sometimes, but… you really come through when it's needed most."

"Yeah, well…" At a loss for words, my voice shook, and it took a lot of effort not to sink to the carpet, merging into it like quicksand.

"If there's anything I can do to pay you back for this…"

Well…

"Actually, Arnold, I need to be honest. There is one little snag-"

"Oh my, this is wonderful news!"

"Grandma!" Arnold called, letting me go to turn his attention to her. "Did you hear?"

She was standing in the doorway, a wooden spoon in her right hand, and rubbing her other hand into an apron. "Yes, Arnold! I was just making a grand Texan breakfast!"

That made my eyes glaze over. To have a nice, home-cooked breakfast was rare for me. I could almost taste the toast slathered in sweet jam, oatmeal with bananas slices, and a cool glass of milk with water dripping down the sides from its own temperature.

Of course, here it might mean burnt bacon, an unidentifiable pile of crusty brown mush and expired orange juice. But heck, I'd take it anyway, and ask Arnold for the Pepto-Bismal later. Just so long as I could manage to stay here as long as possible.

"Can Helga stay?"

"Of course!" She waved the spoon around. "But not too long, we can't take her away from her cabinet meetings at the Grand Canyon!" With her trademark "I'm loopy!" laugh, she was gone.

I rolled my eyes, but out of good humor, and not in a mocking, "This woman needs a nice trip to the white jacket museum" sort of way.

Just the two of us sat at the morning meal, Arnold diagonal from me, the old woman bouncing around trying to swat a pesky fly (and at her age, shouldn't technically be able to do so with such tenacity – but it's better for one's own sanity to let it go), occasionally making the table shake and the plates rattle. I didn't feel like making deep conversation, so I stuffed my face full, leaving close to no indication that the food was making me ill.

Arnold smiled like a 50 watt bulb, stopping his munching only to give me grateful glances, for which I wanted to dance on the ceiling about, or join the fly hunt to work out my emotional energy. Twas not the trying and stiff as a board Thanksgiving dinner we had crashed that one year, when our teacher of the time, Mr. Simmons, revealed that his family was less than pristine (more like a rusty bike that would fall apart in pieces if you sat on it… or looked at it… or even thought about looking at it).

I would wait until after breakfast to tell him of the certain terms Bob had laid out in agreement to doing this. It was a pinch in my side, but one I had to cave into if this was going to happen.

As it turns out I wouldn't have to bother being the bearer of more news, at least upfront (upfront may not be the best word to use, but it'll do). When the last of everything was consumed (boy would I be feeling it later that day if not the next morning), the blonde wonder had the idea that we should walk the food off at the park. I'd held no objection (not even the Queen of England could decree me against it) but made a half-shrug of it, and we had just closed the door when it hit us.

Well, it didn't _hit_ us, but the street wasn't the way I'd left it.

Randomstreet employees were working to decorate the street lights with ribbons, banners with words I couldn't make out strewn across a few buildings, and a few onlookers gathered at each side of the street. Very curious.

"What do you think this is about?" Arnold inquired.

"I think I might have an idea," I mumbled to myself after suddenly noticing a cluster of inflated beeper balloons.

"Olga!" I heard someone call. It could be nobody else but you-know-who. The big dolt rushed up to me in his brisk, business-like manner. "Put these fliers around town like a good girl, would ya?" And before I could even respond, let alone open my mouth, he was gone, shouting orders and complaining.

I groaned as I read over the words. "Big Bob's Beepers Saves Historical Monument Parade!"

Criminey.

"Helga, what is this?"

Sighing, I waved the paper stack in his face. "This. It's what Big Bob wants in return for saving the boarding house." I said the last line with disdain. "Publicity."

He read over the words slowly, then again. "So he's doing this for his business?"

"Got it in one." Slumping down on his front steps, I put both hands on my forehead, as if trying to keep my brain from falling out. "Sorry, Arnold."

He plopped down as well, resting his elbows on the top stair and looking up at nothing in particular. "It's OK, Helga. As long as I'm still living here, I can deal with it. I guess. Not that I'm not still moved by what you did," he added in a panicked tone, presumably prepared I'd lash out for showing ungratefulness. "It's just a parade."

This made me feel a little better, but hardly a thimble's worth.

"Guess… I should go put up these stupid things, or I'll never hear the end."

"Can I go with you?" he asked.

After a moment's hesitation, I handed him half of the printed ads. "Let's get moving, then."

Throwing one at a startled young woman, I barked, "Take one, sister."

"Helga…" Arnold scolded.

"What?"

* * *

The title of this chapter bears no unintentional error. I have a sick sense of humor. Send all chocolate to me, care of my house, USA country. Don't forget to get your leg up on the pile and refinance your dreams. 


	7. Misinformation, Beepers Are Useless

Chapter Six: Misinformation, Beepers Are Useless

* * *

Confetti of all colors and sizes, conveniently shaped like beepers, flew through the sky. I absentmindedly let them shower over my hair, hit my face, weave their way into my hands and fingers, until I quickly pushed them off like uninvited guests.

There weren't any fancy floats like you would find for holidays or some important local event. It was pretty much cars, Bob sitting in the passenger side of the one in front, blaring praise for his business through a speakerphone and clutching coupons in his free hand. Some guy wearing glasses drove, and I guess his name had to be Steve or Dave or Mel or something. They always were.

Yahoo soda, black cherry flavored, tickled my throat as I gulped it down in sweet satisfaction. Walking around had tired us both, so we, Arnold and I, had taken our rightful place back on his stoop to watch. There was a big enough gap between people to see well enough.

I saw Arnold consuming a hot dog out of the corner of my eye as the cool glass bottle rubbed against my forehead. It was covered in the standard toppings; mustard, ketchup, and relish, and like most carnival and public event edibles, was at odds more tasty than sanitary. He messily let the food dribble onto his shirt and ornament his fingers. I would've wiped his chin had I a napkin on hand and was feeling a suicidal kind of brave.

"Mmm," came his voice, slowly, as though he was trying not to let any crumbs spew out; and rather sounded like the hum of a bee's song while flying about in a flower field.

Rolling the bottle through my palms now, relishing in the feeling, I replied, "Good?"

A nod. "Mm."

It didn't appear that too many spectators were particularly fascinated with all this. Some presumably came for the food, or out of curiosity, or because it was something to do. A few children were running about with newly acquired items, which would end up in the closet that night if not that week, as is the case with those of a young age – toys come and go like rolls of toilet paper.

"You look like a cafeteria exploded. Nice going."

He blushed and attempted to tidy up, but who knew if the stains would come out. This only made me smirk. Silly football head.

"So… your Dad put this together really fast."

"Yeah… he has a lot of connections," I replied in a lazy manner. "Sometimes my old man comes in handy."

The blaring voices from the parade became louder as they grew livelier. I heard a few random cheers, but didn't bother to let my brain process any words.

Anything nearby was easier to pick up on, unfortunately.

"Now that I think of it, wasn't that crummy old house almost demolished for a mall or something about 10 years ago?" we heard a man not 5 years older than us in appearance say to a woman holding a baby.

"Yes, I think so. But then some technicality came up," she answered.

The anger of this whole thing I had managed to suppress after calming down with a cool drink filled up again.

"'Technicality'! The man _burned the important document_!" I barked, letting the leftover soda spill after falling over from the physical result of my outburst. They, of whom my rage was aimed at, along with others, turned to stare. Arnold did, too.

"He was a sleezeball, an absolute sleezeball! He endangered lives, he was a heartless sneak! An entire community was almost lost! If I ever saw that overstuffed ham again, I swear I'd rip off his-"

"Helga!" My shining knight reached towards me. "Calm down! It's OK! Really!" All I had to do was look into those glimmering emerald orbs, which less artistic folk may refer to as eyes or pupils, and I stopped, breathing rather aggressively. I looked down at my ruined refreshment.

Great, just great.

I paled, realizing the situation, and indirectly worked out an apology for causing a scene. Besides, if I had continued I might've said something I would regret to sickness later.

The man I spoke of was Mr. Scheck, a greedy and conniving walking business suit, hell-bent on complicating things, not caring who he scammed or harmed in getting hold of the boarding house (along with everything around it). He was also the descendant of a villain involved in the very event that made Arnold's home an important building in Hillwood.

They were still looking at me. I put my hands on my hips, trying to intimidate.

"I-What are you looking at? Mind your own bee's wax! Make like a tree and leaf!" When they didn't immediately comply, I added, "_Now_!"

They hastily returned to their tasks and private conversations (well, not really private, since they were out in the open). Thank goodness I wasn't familiar with any of them. Thank goodness cities had large populations.

I couldn't sit back down where I was before, so I took to the stone and brick ledge, frowning like it was the end of the world. I couldn't believe I had done that, but it needed to be said! Those jerks had no compassion. I wanted to dare them to look at the boy that was across from me, and I only wished I had a time machine, with a projector, so their fuzzy minds would recall what had happened without such off-handedness about the whole stupid thing. To feel what I felt, and listen to the wretchedness.

The always angry and always mocking, Helga Pataki, was startled by another sound notice from her number one's lips.

"I guess this place does look rather 'crummy', doesn't it?"

My face softened. "Arnold…"

"No, Helga, it's true. It's a great old place, but we haven't cared for it well. Once grandpa and grandma became too old…" he stared off into the street.

"Stop the waterworks before the faucet breaks," I scolded. "Now you have plenty of time to fix everything." In a whisper, I threw in, "I'll help."

Geez, how many times was I going to use all this sentimental, "I'll always be here for you" material? Until the end of my life, because I'm a dolt.

"But don't read too much into it!"

"Gotcha, Helga."

Well, that was pretty much all we said to each other for awhile. Satisfied with our rest we decided to get up and walk amongst the scenes (you can only stay in one spot for so long, especially when the spot has no cushioning). I led, with Arnold lagging behind, me with a slight ill will on my face, forcefully making my way through any large gatherings of bodies. Every now and again there was a sigh, or other weird thing to let me know that Arnold did not approve of the speed I was moving or the way I was handling things.

Father dearest had circled around the block and was making his way back, no longer with that stupid speakerphone, but with a new passenger in costume. To see more clearly I stopped suddenly, causing my burden and desire to crash into my back. I was too distracted to comment on that, and let it pass.

"Sorry," he said, winded by the collision (which he shouldn't have been, since it wasn't even that big of one) and sounding a tad curious.

I didn't speak, but hushed him, pointing in the direction of the important vehicle.

Bob was speaking in a common manner now, holding a large tapestry rolled up in his arms. The man, I now realized, was dressed as though he had been pulled out of colonial times, complete with what I call the "gravy boat" hat and fancy buttons lined like disciplined soldiers. He didn't have a chalk white wig but his hair was pulled back as was the standard for that era.

But that wasn't totally important and not worth dwelling on for too long. What I wanted to know was what that giant blanket was all about.

The car stopped not far from where my feet were occupied, and Bob made himself more visible from his seat, grinning like he'd won the lottery, or that his worst enemy had died.

"Thanks for coming," said like we were at a volunteer lunch or something, only gruffly. "Bob's Beepers is proud to announce our recent saving of this fine boarding house." There were some polite claps. "With our fine quality products, on sale this week with our low monthly payment plans, giving back to the community is a top priority, for us and our customers."

Oh please. Lies, the lot of it.

"It's been around for…" the overbuilt SUV fanatic turned to the man in costume, and Yankee Doodle whispered something into his ear, "a long time. Yeah, a long time."

All that work I did for him, and he couldn't do a little bit of research himself? Or was he too busy with something less interesting, like blowing his nose or polishing one of Olga's trophies?

"Would an… Arnie… come up to the car?"

I turned to my companion. "You heard him, 'Arnie.' Get on up there."

Ugh, Arnie. Snort.

Being polite, he obeyed. Not much you can say about the process of walking up to a car, unless they're holding a flaming bag of tacos.

"Yeah, so Arnie, your family lives here?"

He folded his arms, eyebrows raised. "Yes, Mr. Pataki. And it's Arnold."

This did not faze the older man, and Mr. Big Beeper Seller waved his arm, displaying a watch (no doubt expensive, but it's not like I go through his stuff, so I wouldn't know) as if to tell him to put a rush on finishing the conversation. "Yeah, so, tell the nice people about it."

My beloved took a small breath, and a few lagging steps forward. I could almost hear the voice of his childhood; soothing, exciting, and my heart raced just thinking about it. I both loved and hated it when he spoke in public.

"This place… well, this building, has been my home for as long as I can remember. I've spent a lot of winters, springs, summers, and falls here. Many have come and gone, but I have always been here. And um… well,"

Oh, how I longed to hold his hand, or to stand by his side, smiling with warm cheeks and a glorious glow! I had never seen his eyes sparkle with such unrelenting passion! Just talking about his home… he went more into his childhood and a bit about his parents, but nothing too personal was revealed.

Then, he looked at me.

My body felt hot, so hot, and I saw that his eyes had chosen to stay where they were. Was he talking about me? I couldn't decipher words… they were garbled like a broken telephone. Was he saying that I helped?

"Yeah, that's nice, Arnie. Real nice."

I shook myself out of the trance. Darn that man for ruining my moment with Arnold, if only in my foolish mind.

"Family, that's what it's all about." He then, finally, that I could see, brought the tapestry back into the line of subject.

"And that's why, for the good of the community and Big Bob's Beepers' happy family, I am proud to announce," He signaled to someone, and I heard a loud shuffling noise to my left, as if something was being set up quickly, "I am proud to announce…"

Well, come on, say it! What is this all about? I had never heard about any kind of announcement.

Arnold, still looking at me, asked without words if I knew what was going on. All I could do was look back, helplessly. I had no clue. It was just supposed to be a dinky parade, and then we could all get on with our pathetic lives.

"I am proud to announce that this boarding house will become the newest Big Bob's Beepers warehouse!"

A banner, which swished like fabric when it was released, fell from the top of the place he spoke of. It read, "Coming Soon! Another Big Bob's Beepers!"

My pupils went as wide as flying saucers. I couldn't speak. There were no words. I could only move to get a better view. I was fuming.

"WHAT?" came a cry, and I knew who it was.

Arnold.

Oh no.

The tapestry, as it turned out, was a red carpet. For Big Bob.

* * *

I know, I know, but I had a terrible time with this chapter. I only hope it came out decently, and that you enjoyed it. 


	8. Red Carpet Glory, To Take A Stand

Chapter Seven: Red Carpet Glory, To Take A Stand

* * *

"How could you do this!"

I can't believe this man!

"This wasn't part of the deal!"

Hands clenched, face red with anger, I approached my deadbeat upbringer with vengeance.

In a defensive manner he held up his hands, giving me his infamous slanted unibrow. "Hey, hey, hey, little lady. Any decent businessman would know that this is a golden opportunity."

I countered with "And any decent human being should know that this is dirty pool! What you're doing is _wrong_, Dad, and I won't let you!"

Talking loud enough for me to hear but low enough that few others could, he said, "Enough! This is not the time or place!" He "overgrinned" (which here means looking like you're trying too hard and/or are full of yourself) and faced his potential and current customers. "Heh heh. Sorry about this, folks. Daughter is a little overtired. Probably excited for her old pop."

Excited in the sense that I'm about ready to leave you to the alligators, maybe.

Big Bob quickly reached me and grabbed my arm, pulling me away, while meanwhile one of his little henchmen was already working on rolling out that blasted red carpet to the entrance of the historic building. It was more like yanking, really, what "pop" was doing, and I did my best to avoid doing so at a fast pace, instead letting my feet drag and make as much of a spectacle as I could. It was my crafted specialty.

When we were moved a significant length he felt freer to raise his voice and talk down to me, as per usual. "What are you now, girl, fifteen?"

"_Nineteen_, Dad!"

I don't think it got through, because he continued to talk as if he were speaking to himself in a mirror, not expecting or wanting anyone to actually answer. "We're going to be big, bigger than those other guys. Everybody in the city will be wearing my beepers! It'll be great!"

Well, I'm all atwitter with excitement.

"I know I told you all those business perks for saving the boarding house, but I didn't mean for you to go and _turn it into a business_!" I stared straight into his eyes so he could take me seriously and see just how upset this was making me. It took a lot to get him to notice when I was trying to have a meaningful conversation outside of sports or beepers. He just stared back stupidly. "Why can't you store your stupid beepers somewhere else and leave Arnold's home alone?"

Now I'd done it. I'd insulted his beepers. Mr. Big Jerk raised his hand as if ready to strike me (which, as much as I know he can be dimwitted, he would never actually physically harm me – save for that one alien episode during a rather hectic Halloween) and made like an agitated bear, I was saved.

"Mr. Pataki!"

It was Arnold, my headstrong, oddly shaped hero.

Arnold came between us, holding his hand in front of me in a protective manner (or at least, I read it as such). "Mr. Pataki, I have to agree with Helga. I'm grateful that you saw it in your heart to come in and interfere with everything, but…"

Dad stuck out his lower lip in defense. "Listen, Arnie-"

"Arnold."

"Arthur, you seem like a smart guy." He moved away from me and put his arm around Arnold. "You and I both know what this will do for the boarding house, for the good of the city. You'll have to pay double the cost, of course. I'm gonna need all the rooms I can get to store all those boxes."

"What!" Arnold cried, appalled.

"Dad!" My eyes slit to the point where you could hardly see my pupils, and my attention darted from him to Arnold at a rapid pace, unsure of what to do. The tension was painful.

"Mr. Pataki." Arnold spoke slower now, but in his own, calm way. When he was that calm, you knew something was going to blow, and not in a good way, like a piñata with candy. No, I mean like a barrel of nuclear chemicals about to spill onto a playground. Big Bob was unfamiliar with Arnold's moods, so I was the only one that braced myself, shaking. "Again, thank you for keeping it away from the bankers. But if that's what it takes do it, then I think we should call it off."

He paused, taking a deep, waspish breath.

"I don't want to see it filled with hollow, shallow products. My grandpa, if he was still with us, would want it passed down to a kind and caring group of people, if it couldn't be kept for us. He would hate this, it would break his heart."

But the words did not move the older man. In fact, he appeared even more annoyed that we were holding up his plans, as he'd heard a similar speech just minutes ago, and would not pretend to care this time. You know, sometimes in the past, something Arnold said or did would move him to stop what he was doing and realize his mistakes. And if it wasn't Arnold, something else would trigger it. But this time I think it would take more than a pretty sequence of letters.

Pulling a sheet of paper out of nowhere (where was he keeping it, in his shirt? Or is this something any normal person wouldn't want to dwell on for more than 5 seconds?), Dad presented us with an official document.

"Too late. The standard papers have already been signed, and this baby officially belongs to me."

Hoover Damn that man to Hell, Michigan.

"Mr. Pataki, you can't do this!"

Dad gave an open lipped sneer. "Have you been listening, Albert? I said it's a done deal. Deal with it."

Well, this girl wasn't going to! Not even for all the China in China!

I defended my dear boy in one of the ways I knew best. I shoved him away. "Get inside, Arnold. I need to take care of something."

His face froze. He knew what I was about to do. "Helga, no!"

I turned to scold him. "JUST DO IT! Get into the boarding house!"

I didn't need to say it twice. He knew my full fury.

Once I was sure that the situation was safer on our end, I started on our aggressor, stepping on the red carpet that was now carefully laid out with my grimy soul shoes. "I didn't want to do it." Rubbing dirt into it, I forced him to take a step back. "I shouldn't have to do it."

"Girl, what are you-"

"For the last time, my name is Helga! Not Olga, or girl, or little lady!"

"Fine, fine. What is it you want? We have a new line of pink beepers coming this March. I can-"

I interrupted him. "No!"

"I mean it, stay out of the way!"

"No!" I could feel my eyes becoming watery. "I can't… I won't…"

I sank to my knees, attempting to force any oncoming tears in with my fists. Cameras! There might've been cameras! That would make everything ten times worse!

"Helga…"

"Are you that cold? Don't you have any feelings at all?" I rose slowly. "I thought you did. Guess I was wrong."

Before he could speak I was already making a beeline for the sacred door, closing it behind me with strength. Arnold was standing there in the hallway next to the stairs, looking worried and scared.

"Do you have a key?" I asked him. "We need to lock this door."

"You shouldn't do this, Helga. The police might-"

"I don't care if they arrest me! We need to lock the stupid door! Get a key, now, and don't go all soft! Bolt the windows, make sure nobody leaves and nobody gets in!"

I didn't care if they brought in elephants with lasers. I would not move from this place.

Not for anyone.

Outside, the problems were just beginning. Inside, they were just getting worse.

* * *

Happy Holidays! Feedback is not required but always appreciated. I need to know how I'm doing from time to time. Until next time, and thanks so much for reading! 


	9. I Want To Make History

Chapter Eight: I Want To Make History

* * *

On any other day, you might find it precious. A girl and the boy she loved sitting in his room, looking thoughtful, gazing at the sky visible through the ceiling. Maybe it would lead to handholding and laughter, maybe a confession of admiration, or, dare it be said, love, or two or four. They would decide they couldn't wait to marry, catching the next plane to the nearest hot climate, bride decked out in slimming yet appropriate white beach wear. 

In all actuality, that was far from what it was.

For a time Arnold and I had sat. We figured there wouldn't be any extreme police action (anything broken the dirty rat would have to pay for) so for a time we felt relatively safe. That did not mean we felt happy or anything of the sort. It was more like lying in a hospital bed. Safe from harm but desperate to stand up and see the world past the walls of medical care.

"How did your Dad get away with doing something like this, Helga?"

I could only assume he was referring to turning the boarding house into a commercial bracket. My only response was, "I guess you can do almost whatever you like as long as you don't tear it down. Maybe he found a loophole or something."

"Oh."

Everything was locked up tight, upstairs and down, or at least as much as we could manage. People were instructed not to respond to anyone outdoors, especially not police, under the strict orders of Old Betsy (as I so lovingly nicknamed my fist).

The earlier confrontation between me and Big Bob played through my head like a rotating wheel, never to stop until it hit a wall. This was shortly after my "wild and rash" decision to take the place hostage.

--

"This is crazy, girl," I heard him yell through the door. "Come out now!"

"No!" I screamed back. "I won't! I'm taking a stand, you primroses!"

"Fight the power, fight the power!" cackled Arnold's grandmother, who was wearing what looked like an Uncle Sam costume, flinging dirty cabbage through an available opening in a window we had not yet secured. People scattered, moaning and screaming at the disgusting thing she was doing, not daring to come near.

I was very proud of her.

"Grandma, be careful! We can't make this worse!" her grandson scolded. I could only imagine what it was like to live with this woman 24/7, or even where she kept all those costumes. Turning to me, his forehead furrowed and eyes evident of great inner dialogue, he added, "This is insane! Helga, we can't do this!"

Not this again.

"Football Head, just do as I told you! Continue to check for places they can get in, and make sure that they _don't_!"

"Fight the power, free the prisoners!"

"Careful, grandma! Get down from there, it isn't stable."

"Helga! You better listen to me! Your sister Olga would never do something like this!"

If you're an imbecile, you know that a grand way to get me going is to compare me to my perfect, award winning and way too ditzy to be as smart as she was sister, Olga. Bad move.

"I'm not like _Ol_-ga, and I'm not coming out!"

"DON'T MAKE ME COME IN THERE!"

"I DARE YOU TO TRY!"

My palms were sweating at this point, forehead against the green wood of their door, my voice slowing deteriorating into mush in which I knew I wouldn't be able to carry on a standard shouting match for much longer.

"I mean, geez," I muttered mostly in mind of myself. "The things I do…"

For love.

--

Now nausea rose to my throat. I felt like I was having an allergic reaction, my stomach like a lead balloon, spiders crawling up and down my throat. But I wouldn't let on that I felt this way. I had to gulp a few times in case I felt the urge to vomit. This whole thing made me ill.

Oh, how all this spiked into my heart and soul to make me weaken in health! Oh Arnold. Please understand that my affection for you is stronger than any potion or cheesy sitcom with forgettable catch phrases.

There wasn't a whole lot we could do. Sometimes I heard loud noises outside, but I did my best to filter them out. Rather like selective hearing. And then sometimes I would sniff or scratch my arm, as if too cool or bored to even be here, which we both knew wasn't true.

At one point Arnold could no longer keep his butt planted, so he paced and paced, to the point he looked like he'd been sitting under the sun without covering for hours (a dramatic way to put it, but the poor turtledove did look exhausted). Then he'd try to busy himself with a book, or go on his computer. But I knew what this was doing to him.

And it just made the sick feeling stay.

But I would do this for days, since it was the right thing. That meant even if everyone else folded and I was forced to lock myself in his closet with nothing to eat but wool sweaters and an old baseball.

"Do we have any kind of game plan, Helga?"

I was afraid someone might ask that, especially him. And no, I didn't know how to answer. This had all been very spur of the moment. It's not like I'd spent the week before hunched over a desk, laughing manically, throwing paper and breaking pencils.

"No." What good would it be to lie?

"Helga…" his voice elongated my name.

"Well, what do you want, a novel written in stone? We're just rowing around the waters for now."

Wisely, he said, "We can't sit here forever. Something is going to happen."

Again, not something I didn't already know.

I stood, letting a dizzy rush reach my head. I had to balance for a few seconds before I dared to speak. "You want to walk out there and let them arrest you? Be my guest, Football Head."

Arnold noticed my strange gait. "What's wrong, Helga?"

I blinked at him, and then raised my eyebrows as if suggesting he were crazy as a loon. "Nothing is wrong."

As he had previously been some feet away, he took a step forward, slowly closing the gap. "You don't look so good."

"Didn't I just say that nothing is wrong? Leave it alone!"

But he seemed in an arguing mood. "Should I get my grandma?"

Now there's something nobody should be asked, unless they are fond of indigestion or premature death. "Do I look stupid? She'll kill me!"

Arnold put his hands up in surrender, but I could tell he wouldn't totally let it drop. "Whatever you say, Helga." I'm sure he would be keeping a close eye on me, which I didn't mind.

His room really was very intricate. How many people would the average Joe know that have a remote controlled couch? It's not as though he didn't have enough room. It's just cool to have it come out of the wall, I suppose. His floor was something out of a wacky clothing store, or a restaurant's attempt to be hip. For him, it worked really well. With the times (at least in the technology aspect), yet very laidback.

I wanted to study all this, because in the back of my mind I wondered if I would never get the chance again, or at least with Arnold's solid knowledge that I was there.

"What should I do, grandpa?" I heard him say, as though beaten, as though the battle was as good as lost. It wasn't a question that actually expected an answer, or a sign like a lamp falling over or lightening striking us down. But it's one that people who have suffered a loss ask all the same.

Yes, what _would_ the old man have done? Sat in the bathroom? Let his "pookie" handle things? Would he have simply given up, like he almost did all those years ago?

Did I need to trace the roots back to that fateful time? Did that hold the key?

"Arnold," I said, almost slurring my words. "Why exactly is this place so historical?" I admit I had forgotten. Wasn't it about fruits, or food of the sort? Something so ridiculously stupid it was incapable of not standing out?

His stared back questionably, maybe he thought he was on to what I was going for. "Something about tomatoes and the colonists. The Great Tomato War or something, I think."

My mind moved back to his grandmother's cabbage episode, and it clicked.

That was it!

"Arnold… how do you feel about recreating history?"

* * *

Happy 2006! Next chapter coming soon, if not eventually. Thanks for reading! 


	10. Peel Me A Grappling Hook

Chapter Nine: Peel Me A Grappling Hook

* * *

I guess you could call me a natural born leader. When there's leading to be led, I lead it (at least, when I can). So I guess it was second nature to run things, as I did so many years ago for our childhood baseball games. 

"Attention troops!" my voice boomed like a hard-headed sergeant. "Are you ready to save the boarding house?"

There were some muffled agreements, and some loud screams that were difficult to understand. I shook my head. That wasn't good enough.

"I said, are you ready to save the boarding house?"

"Yes!"

"Save the building, fight the gangsters!"

Anyone could guess that last one came from Arnold's paternal grandparent. I shot a smile in her direction as I held a juicy vegetable tight in my hand. It was fresh from the fridge so it still had its respective juices, which ran down my hand and arm, cold as ice. I didn't care.

"That's better, you bunch of chuckleheads. I want everything ready now! To your stations!"

Everybody was dressed in costume, courtesy of a secret closet. Not everything was period correct. Some looked ready to walk the tight rope at the circus or take down Wheezin' Ed in a bar brawl. But since most people couldn't see us well enough up here, that was OK as well. What mattered was the end result.

Arnold stood close to me, staring straight ahead. He moved only to blink his eyes.

I gave him a playful yet hard slap on the back, causing him to lurch forward. "Hey, lighten up. I know what I'm doing."

Correcting his posture, he gave that soft Arnold sigh. "Do you, Helga?"

I answered by shouting out another order. "That catapult ready back there?"

An aging businessman, whose name I didn't know and didn't care to find out, was putting last minute preparations on our makeshift catapult (would you believe cereal boxes are handier beyond holding cereal?). A young woman resembling a red-haired Rhonda Lloyd stood nearby holding a squash, giving me a head nod which indicated that it was. I wondered if she worried that she might stain her fancy shoes. Smirking at the thought, I continued my leadership.

"Ready on my signal!" There was a pause as I lifted my gloved hand into the air. "Go!"

The battle had begun. My heart was racing – I felt like I could take on any Olympic runner on that merit alone. The inevitable sounds of invisible people screaming at the onslaught and squishes as misaimed goods hit the pavement rang in my ears.

I stuck my head over to survey the damage. Bingo! We'd gotten some hits.

"Fire two!" I cried. This time there was celery and bacon in the air. Sadly, there wasn't a single tomato in the place, so we had to make do with the other stuff. I have no idea what we could've called this. The salad war, maybe?

"... the heck's going on up there?" came the booming voice of my Dad.

Cackling could not be held back by my self-restraint. I even placed my hands over my stomach and doubled over for effect.

This was grand.

I could see, as I was still looking over, his grit teeth, as though he was trying to bite into something rubbery with no success.

He just wasn't going to get it. Did I have to bean him with a watermelon before anything set into that thick head? Maybe super glue a note to his forehead?

It was then that I even saw a news van pull up near him, a woman in a bright green business suit and muddy colored hair rushing out with her microphone. I couldn't hear a syllable out of her mouth, but I knew it could either be good or bad for the cause.

"Oh no, we're on the news now!" a boarder moaned.

"Ah, cram it," I barked. "Attention is what we wanted!"

And I'm doing this all for you, Arnold. Oh, Arnold. My now-taller-than-me delight. My sparkling hero. How I longed to plunge everyone save for us off the roof so I could stand alone with him, fighting together, two becoming one.

"Helga? Helga?"

I spaced out again. Maybe I'd reached the Milky Way this time.

"W-w-what, football head?"

Nice cover up.

Arnold pointed away from us. "I just wanted to tell you, your dad is trying to climb up here."

What! That lump! What was he trying to do this time!

As if disbelieving I checked several times before I could accept that at the moment my Dad was gone from where I'd seen him. He had found a ladder and was quickly making his way to us, wind making his short gray hair dance. His face still gave away that he would sooner disown me than listen to reason, and I gulped. He had to have been really angry now, to pull this stunt.

"Change of strategy!" I called. "Everybody aim for the big guy, and make it snappy!"

Panicked, "everybody" followed my orders quickly, dropping things as they ran from their previous spots. I bit the top of my lip so hard I almost cried.

"Helga, maybe we should-" my dim beloved said.

"No," I interrupted. I fought so hard to sound cool and confident I probably sounded like I was in labor instead. "No, this will not go down. Not here. Not now."

"Girl, when I – ow – get up there – ouch – I'm sending you to a private school in Sweden, or – ow – some kinda jail! Hey, watch it with that!"

I felt Arnold's hand rest timidly on my shoulder. I flinched.

"I don't want you to get sent anywhere, Helga. Please, stop this now."

I turned to look up at him, feeling like he needed a good hard slap in any random place. "So you're just going to give up? Going to let Big Bob take away your home? Going to walk away with your tail between your legs?"

His cheeks turned pink. "That's not what I'm saying, Helga. Grandpa wouldn't want anyone hurt."

By now this girl was fuming. "Why are you being so difficult? Why are you being so… so… _ridiculous_? I know how much everything has been hurting you. I know of your crying, because you cried with me. I know that this is crazy and illegal and illogical on so many levels. And I'm working to help you, Arnold, and I'll be _damned_ if I'm going to let your passive football head let someone take-"

"We can't stop him, he's coming up!" I heard someone say.

Crap on a cracker. What was I going to do?

I wasn't about to hit my Dad. I wasn't totally stupid and didn't have the heart to do it anyway. Or the muscles. He was wrestler strong if you really got him going. His only real weakness, besides the mighty dollar, was his back, which had a tendency to go out.

But how could I use that to my advantage?

I could feel the foundation vibrate as Big Bob reached the top and set foot on it, shoving a few people out of the way. I moved in front of Arnold, placing a hand out from my side to let him know not to cross.

"Do what you want to me, but don't touch Arnold." I gave him a look of murder, one that only an imbecile would dare to tempt.

He stepped closer, stiff like a robot.

"Your sister would never be so inconsiderate!"

My face grew warm. "I've told you before, Big _Boob_. I'm not my sister! I'm Helga."

Arnold interfered. "Please, you guys."

"No, Arnold." I was sad, very sad. And so sick of everything.

Then I came up with a crazy idea. "You got any helicopters at your disposal?"

"Not unless grandma is hiding something else from me," he replied.

Well, so much for the super spy exit.

"Any hot air balloons?"

"No."

"Motorcycles?"

"No."

"Magically enhanced cyclones?"

"What?"

"Never mind."

"I don't get it, girl. Why are you going through so much trouble for this kid? He's not even worth it. You in love with him or something?" Big Bob asked, not looking as intimidating but still enough to make small children wet themselves.

"I don't… well, I can't… I…" I stuttered nervously. Several seconds passed and I could see Arnold, appearing stunned at my lack of an answer. With everyone else around staring at me, that just made it worse. What could I say that wouldn't blow my cover?

How would all of this end?

* * *

I apologize for the weakness of this chapter. I promise the next one will be longer, and that school won't have fried my brain beyond anything decent when it comes to writing, because I'm out at the end of the month. I do hope you enjoyed it anyway. 


	11. Never Eat Strange Pies

Chapter Ten: Never Eat Strange Pies

* * *

"Something like that isn't important," I said, my way to doing so overflowing with venom, if releasing deadly chemicals vocally were possible. "What does matter is that this is an act of injustice." 

The clouds in the sky were also among my audience, and the whiteness of their make seemed to encourage me to continue, despite all else. Big Bob snorted, like a dragon releasing steam from his nostrils before an attack.

"You are taking something that has been in a family for a few generations, and making it into a cold, hard, impersonal square of bricks. This is not a factory, or a store, or anything else. Would you like it if somebody came and kicked us out of our house?"

He took a second to think about it, though the answer could be predicted. "Nobody would dare. I'm the Beeper King."

I sighed, my blonde hair tickled by the wind. Perhaps I looked the brave figure; perhaps I looked like a pathetic, little lost girl, on that hour on that day.

I almost wanted to spout poetry from my lips. The emotion was so strong in me, and being a writer (albeit a secret one) how could I not be tempted? But of course, this was a terrible idea and could worsen an already bad situation.

"Is making and selling a few extra beepers really all that important? I mean, is it really?" I lowered my head to the ground, as sometimes I had difficulty coming up with what to say if I was looking the person directly in the eyes. To some, it might've appeared that I was about to attack, or cry my eyes out. Neither was true.

"In this world, lives pass so quickly. Some last longer than others. But, money doesn't stay with you." My eyes surveyed nearby shoes, their unpolished souls caked with dirt from city life. It was depressing. To think: someday those shoes would be thrown away, or given to a second hand shop on what some would call "the other side of the tracks." Memories, imprints left on former land they once passed; happiness, scuffed knees and realizations, appointments and celebrations. Was it really so simple to forget such things? Was this place, such as the shoes, so easy to toss aside for someone to destroy or buy, without knowing the pure tenderness and adventures they once held, thus not able to give it proper care?

I closed myself from the shoes, from everyone. I closed myself from the world, from the realm of control. I simply stood there, waiting for the right thing to come without my control, to cleanse this.

The clouds shifted, stretched like warped cotton candy. A message came to be, something nobody could've predicted.

"Gee, you're absolutely right, Dad."

If this were the old west, a tumble weed might've drifted by, with no particular destination.

"Huh?" a collection wave of confusion hit from all sides. But I stood firm, quite aware of what I had said. I hadn't gone insane.

"How could I be so foolish? Of course, you know everything. Trying to save this dump was a waste of time. It's better put to profit use." I stomped on the floor to emphasize my point. "This flimsy old thing doesn't deserve respect."

The old man was overjoyed, and if this were a cartoon, dollar bill signs would've flashed before his eyes.

"Cripes, finally, the girl sees the light!"

I put my right hand out, as if to stop him, even though he wasn't coming towards me.

"Not so fast. If you'll follow me into the kitchen, we can resolve this."

I had another brilliant Pataki plan.

As we all made the "climb," (down to Arnold's room, then down to the kitchen, obviously) I could tell by the tension that nobody was the wiser. They probably wanted to call me a hypocrite or toss me out the nearest window. There were aggressive murmurings and exaggerated steps. I'd like to see them try anything like that. Old Bessie would break their fingers, but good. Arnold was quite silent, and blameless in that. But, yadda yadda, that's just repetitive, right?

"Don't worry, Arnold," I said in a harsh whisper to reassure him. "It's not what you think. Tell your grandma to make a special meal," and so then moved on give him specific details.

--

"So what's this all about, eh?" Big Bob grumbled, sitting at the table with a hand on his stomach. "If its food you're making, I'm starving."

I rolled my eyes. Why else would we be in there, for a card game?

"Yes, Mr. Pataki, and I think you'll like it. It's my grandma's homemade," the blonde-haired boy winked, "raspberry pie."

It's a wonder how a pie can be baked so fast, but she found a way. It was soft and steaming, red sauce pouring out of every available pore. It even gurgled a bit; something that should've been a "Don't eat me! You'll die!" signal, or something out of a twisted fairytale.

Someone brought over a glass filled with milk, another with a plate and fork. Dad licked his lips hungrily.

Putting my hands on the table, hunched over, I said, "Go ahead. Take a big bite."

And he did. After a few bites, the death sentence on a plate presumably gained access to his stomach, and he flinched, dropping the fork with a clang.

"What's… in this stuff?"

"Oh, you know. Flour, eggs…" I used my fingers to count. "Raspberries… laxative."

Arnold's grandmother laughed. "Lots and lots, so you can fight crime and find the lost jewel of Tibet!" She then ran out of the room, as if forgetting what had just happened.

Big Bob's face turned the most sickly green I've ever seen. He covered his mouth, as if doing so would prevent him from losing everything all over. But it wasn't long before his stomach made an odd sound, and, getting out of the chair fast as lightning, he headed towards the bathroom. Thankfully, Arnold beat him to the sacred room's door.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pataki, but I can't you in."

"And why in criminy not? Let me in there, Arnie!"

I called out. "No, Dad. Not until you agree to stop what you're planning."

Another odd sound, louder and more urgent than before. "No. I told you, no!"

"And then what? Are you going to explode in the hallway? You won't make it outside!"

His legs bent, and he almost reached the floor in pain, eyes bugged out, whole body trembling. It was only a matter of time. Hopefully soon, so we wouldn't have a mess to clean. Ew.

He threw his hand up in defeat. "OK, OK! I'll do whatever you want! I'll sign anything! Just let me get in there!"

"Remember," I reminded him, "you promised, and we have witnesses."

As soon as he was inside, door slammed, cheers rang out. I couldn't help but laugh heartily and loudly, arms at my side, teeth exposed to the ceiling, not caring who saw.

* * *

Gasp - Almost a full year since my last update! And I could kick myself and college for it! I know this was painfully short, but it's the best I can do at the moment. If there are ANY errors, please let me know. This was written when I was quite tired, and though I looked it over, I might've missed something. The last chapter will be up late week/early the week after, after I finish some exams. Thank you all so much for continuing to read this trite. Feedback is not required but, good or bad, is always appreciated. 


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